


FEELING WASTED

by Kikoiku



Series: HOME ALONE [4]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Creepypasta, F/M, Gore, Graphic Depiction of Blood, Horror, Inspired by..., Isolation, Kidnapping, Mention of abuse, POV Second Person, Paranoia, Run and Go, Stalking, Threats of Violence, Torture, flight, mention of murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:08:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24180322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kikoiku/pseuds/Kikoiku
Summary: You have been rotting in this cell for quite some time now. You don't now how much time has passed, but you know that there's dirt under your nails from trying to break free and blood in your mouth from being beaten.He is angry and he wants you to suffer.Not even the illusion of being saved can help you now.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Series: HOME ALONE [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1681237
Kudos: 3





	FEELING WASTED

The room you're sitting in is dark and cold. Water is running down the walls almost painfully slow, drenching the old mattress you're sitting on. The chain around your wrist chafes the sensitive skin and there's a pain pulsing in your left ankle, which you hurt back in the night of the storm. Your voice is hoarse from endless hours of screaming and there's a headache spreading from the laceration just above your right eyebrow. The blood there has long dried and you think it's stupid, but you can still feel it flowing down your cheek.  
  
You don't know how long exactly it has been for your consciousness has faded several times and came back only to leave you in blackness again. But the sun has crept by just to fade several times since you first came here. The moon is falling through the small square in the wall above your head – a poor excuse for a window. You wouldn't be able to fit through, no matter how hard you tried, but there's still rusting bars in front of it nonetheless and rats are constantly passing through, quick and quiet.

You wish you were one of them.

He barely ever visits you, unless he wants to hurt you. The little of food he is granting you is given to you on a small, wooden tray through a flap at the bottom of the heavy metal door. There's no bathroom at all, merely a bucket standing lonely in the corner farthest from you. The chain on your arm makes it nearly impossible to reach it, anyway.

There's disgust welling up inside of you, when you look at it for too long.

And still – when he leaves, you want him to stay, for you do not want to fall back into this hole of loneliness that has taken root inside of you, and you crave for human interaction so badly. The ringing silence drives you insane, makes you lose all focus. And when you try to sleep, to escape this hell for just a little while, the nightmares are clinging onto you with images far worse than this and when you finally, _finally_ wake up – they still just will not end.

You don't know anymore, if sleeping is better than staying awake, after all.  
  


You barely remember how exactly he got you here. There was a sound at the door, some rattling and rustling, before it swung open and the most threatening smile you ever saw was thrown into your direction like a thousand knives. Barely a moment had passed, but there was a veil of red falling over your eyes and then – black.

You woke up just as he laid you onto the filthy mattress, carefully, as if you were something incredibly precious, something he didn't want to destroy. There was a cloud hovering over your brain, making you unable to sort your thoughts. You were feeling light, almost dizzy.

You kind of felt like being drunk.

And you wished you actually had some weird kind of booze-aftermath-dream as you took in your surroundings, noticing the small square and the chain and the door. There had been shouting and screaming on the floor and you think you recognized your boyfriend's voice but you hope, you pray you didn't, for his voice was that of a dying man.

 _He wouldn't hurt him, though._ , you think. _He treasures him too much to do so._

And still there's something in your chest, something aching, mourning, whispering.

But what if he doesn't?

Your heart lets out a violent sob at the thought and you want to cry so desperately, but the tears just wouldn't come.

As if he had stolen them from you.

Just as he had stolen your luck.

You know that he is crazy, mad, out of his mind. With that you can work, he is not the first maniac you had to deal with.

But he's unpredictable.

And that scares you above all.

The door opens with a deafening screech and you close your eyes at the sound. You try to focus on your breath instead that had quickened up its pace at the sound. He walks in, with a swing in the way he moves. The light coming from the corridor behind him, frames his silhouette like a grotesque halo. And suddenly there's this foul taste in your mouth again, that you know all too well.

He's wearing a face-mask that covers his mouth and nose, but you can still imagine the smile behind it, that hasn't left his lips since he had appeared at the lighthouse. You can see his teeth in your memory. They are bright in the darkness of your cell and there's one of them missing in the left upper corner. You want to ask him, what happened to it, but you can't use your voice – you know it would be to no avail, anyway. He doesn't talk about himself. In fact he doesn't really talk at all. Not, unless he tells you what he's gonna do to you. All you ever hear from him is laughing – laughing at you, laughing at your screams, laughing at your pain.

You think you sometimes hear your boyfriend in the background, pleading for mercy, but you don't know it it's all just a product of your imagination.

You do not want him to see you like this.

As he comes closer your vision becomes clearer. You recognized the old Iron Maiden-Shirt you had gotten from your best friend as a birthday present about six years ago, and he's wearing the ripped skinny-jeans you had given to your boyfriend as a Christmas-present last year. You notice a sparkle coming from his left wrist – the same of yours that's chained to a wall, you realise – and when you take a closer look a whine escapes your lips, for it is the one that once belonged to your sister and you can't stand to think about anyone wearing it, but her.

His greasy hair became longer, you notice. It's falling into his face, over his eyes. There's a wild fire in them, as it has been all this time, but there's something different in them today.

Something warm, something kind.

You almost think he might let you go.

But then he crouches down to your level and the glimpse is gone and you have to let out a shaky breath as he touches your cheek. He strokes your hair almost fondly, but you feel the threat in his touch, the lingering desire to hurt you.

His hand traces down your temple, stopping at the bruise above your eye just for a second, along your jaw, resting on your throat.

“What a shame," he whispers, admiration in his voice. “You had so much potential...I'm sorry it has to end like this.”

Suddenly there's a knife in his hand and a sharp pain in your throat and it becomes hard, so hard to breathe. Blood is flowing down your torso, over your legs, soaking into the mattress. He pulls you into his lap, resting your head against his chest, almost like an embrace and your hands cling to his forearm around your shoulders, surely leaving bruises.

 _That he will not care about._ , you think.

He whispers soothing things into your ear, trying to calm you down, but it's to no use.

You know you won't make it out alive this time.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys!
> 
> This was the last part of this series and  
> I'm thanking everyone who's reading this!
> 
> Kudos and comments, of course, are highly  
> appreciated!


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